


A Price Too High to Pay

by SueB



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Brotherly Affection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 00:54:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3270716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SueB/pseuds/SueB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir's willingness to sacrifice all for the sake of Gondor is tested when Faramir receives his first serious battle wound. Movie-verse, pre-Ring War. Boromir is 22, Faramir is 17. Three chapters, complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema. I am making no profit from their use.
> 
> Many thanks to my sister SarahB and Cressida for their feedback on this story!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Sue :)

Boromir lifted his head, uttered a long, exhausted sigh, and for the first time in his life, hated the thought of battle.

It was quiet now in the large healer's tent where he sat. He had no idea how long it had been since the flow of wounded from the most recent fight had stopped, when the healers had finished their urgent work on those who could be saved and comforted as best they could those whose mortal lives were close to ending. When he had arrived several hours earlier, the sun had been setting, the battle freshly ended, and the air had been full of shouted orders and the cries of the injured.

His green eyes traveled slowly around the dimly lit tent. Only a few lamps flickered in the darkness; all the fallen men were now either asleep or wrapped in a far deeper slumber which would find no waking there. It seemed to Boromir, however, that the taint of blood and pain still hung in the air, haunting even the peaceful scene before him. This was not the first time he had been in a healer's tent; after five years in the Gondorian army, he had had his share of wounds. Tonight, however, it all seemed much more oppressive and sinister to him, the shadow of death far closer than he had ever noticed before.

He blinked wearily and rubbed his eyes, every movement reminding him of the stiffness of his muscles and making him feel far older than his twenty-two years. How long had he been sitting here, still clad in his blood-spattered battle armor, without the appetite for food or drink? Slowly he drew one hand through his damp blonde hair, trying to think, but nothing coherent came. Did it matter how much time had passed, really? He knew his men had won the day, that the forces of Mordor had been held back by the sons of Gondor once again. They could spare him, and if the need rose, his commander knew where to find him. Yet even if the need arose, he doubted he would be able to leave.

A heavy mantle of sadness settled over his heart, and he glanced at the cot next to him which had commanded his entire attention from the moment he had entered the tent.

Upon the cot lay another man, some years his junior, covered with a thin sheet whose folds failed to hide the severity of his injuries. His face bore some resemblance to Boromir's, although it was longer, and the long curling hair carried a more reddish hue. Bandages swathed his chest, showing through the loose linen shirt he wore, dark bruises circled his neck, and his youthful face was marred with several deep scratches. His skin was very pale, and glistened with an unhealthy sheen in the faltering light of the lamps, enhancing the crimson ugliness of his wounds. Like the other patients, he was asleep, but his apparently peaceful rest seemed to bring little comfort to Boromir as he stared at the supine figure's drawn features. His eyes could not help glancing from the injured man to the pile of blood-streaked armor which lay discarded behind the cot, or the bucket of scarlet-stained bandages that sat nearby.

Boromir stared with an expression of perfect agony at this young man, his eyes bearing an increasing aspect of sorrow, anger and fear. A battalion of charging Orcs had never raised in him such fear as he felt in this quiet tent, looking down at this still form. Battle had never disquieted him, the willingness to sacrifice all for Gondor never awakening the slightest hesitation in his heart.

Until this day, when the heat of battle had nearly claimed his beloved younger brother Faramir.

He bowed his head, overcome with grief as the terrible images conjured up by the healer's words once more rolled through his mind. He had first heard them when he arrived, breathless and terrified that he'd be too late and find Faramir dead. The healer had told him what had happened, and somehow the story had made it through the thick web of shock that had woven itself around Boromir's mind. There it had stuck, immovable, sounding over and over in his ears, a crimson tale of how the war had almost cost him his brother.

Powerless to halt the vision, Boromir once more saw the event unfold in his mind, as it had repeatedly all night long, as if he had been there. A battle raging, Gondor's sacred earth black and red with the blood of Orcs and men, undulating waves of soldiers shifting back and forth across the contested field. In the midst of it was Faramir, a soldier for only six months now but already well-respected by his commander and the other men, plying his sword in the name of their people and their father, Denethor, the ruling Steward of Gondor.

Then, as the healer told it, he could see one of the other soldiers falling, beset by Orcs. Faramir, abandoning thoughts of his own safety, flying to his side, throwing the vile creatures away, plunging his blade again and again into the beasts to drive them back. Their first prey forgotten, the Orcs began turning on the Steward's youngest son, stabbing him viciously, grabbing him by the throat, determined to choke the life from him...

Boromir shuddered and dropped his head into his hands, covering his eyes, wishing he could blot out the thought of Faramir in the merciless grip of the Orcs. How could he bear the idea of his precious brother, gentle, peaceful Faramir, dangling by the neck, covered in his own blood, still fighting even as he struggled for breath? His stomach roiled, even though he knew that Faramir had been saved by his men's intervention, that the Orcs who had attacked him were slain, that his brother, though badly wounded, had survived the assault. Despite this knowledge, the very idea made him ill, and he knew that it always would.

Sighing, Boromir lifted his head and looked once more at Faramir, a warm sensation of sorrow sweeping through him. The rest of the healer's words echoed in his ears; Faramir would be very weak for a while, but he would probably recover completely. Tonight was most important for him, but once it had passed and he regained enough strength, Faramir would be sent back to the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith for rest. In a few months he would be fit to return to service.

The warrior frowned, anger pushing through the sadness. The healer had couched his promises carefully, but Boromir knew enough to hear what was not said. Tonight would be the test; Faramir would live, if he survived to the morning. And that meant that there was still a chance...

His throat tightened, and he shook his head, as pointless as the gesture was to anyone who might have seen him. No, he thought firmly to himself, he would not even consider that. The thought would not even be allowed to cross his mind. He would not lose Faramir. The healer might not have been certain, but Boromir knew. Surely his brother would be spared, he was strong for one of only seventeen years, and Gondor needed such strength for the struggle ahead. 

Then Boromir's eye fell once more on the blood-spattered armor, the crimson bandages, the too-pale face shining with sweat, and his heart fell, unable to sustain the hopeful delusion. He had seen too many men, stronger and with lesser injuries than those inflicted on his brother, laid low before their time. And Faramir had lost so much blood, every garment he had been wearing was drenched in it. 

Boromir found himself staring at the saturated bandages, and thinking, 'Faramir's blood.' 

He grew ill again, and swallowed, tearing his eyes away.

Other images came before his mind, disconnected and random. They were children again, playing by the great river, heedless of the future. Boromir was stabbing the air with a wooden sword, boasting to Faramir with an eleven-year-old's pride how many Orcs he'd kill one day. Faramir, sitting by the Anduin with a book in his lap, voiced his admiration and kept reading.

Years flew by; he could see himself eagerly training for war, delighting in each new battle lesson, anxious to learn to fight, to defend, to kill. And Faramir was there as well, sitting in the library surrounded by dusty books, diligently studying his music and history, holding long discussions with Boromir over the uses and misuses of war. The talks might get heated, but there was never an argument. He was just stating what he thought.

Then, another memory, Faramir standing tall in his new soldier's uniform, and Boromir teasing him, full of pride: "And here I always thought you hated war."

And his brother had said, "But I love Gondor, and Father, and you. For the sake of what I love, I can endure what I hate."

Boromir's hands clenched into fists as rage consumed him. It all seemed so pointless, so unfair. Faramir did hate war, would have much rather spent his life with those moldy old parchments. Yet here he was, mangled and bleeding, as if the gods of combat had sought him out for punishment, while Boromir, who had devoted his life to war, sat whole. 

He grimaced and ducked his head, frustrated anger coursing through him. If the Valar had decided that one of them had to be wounded, he would much rather it had been himself. He could bear his own suffering; as one born with a warrior's soul and as the heir of the Stewardship, he had spent his whole life toughening himself for his future. Such pain would be nothing to the anguish of sitting untouched by his brother's side, waiting, unable to help while all sorts of horrifying fancies tortured his heart. 

Next to Faramir's bed, a section of the tent lay open to allow the cool night breezes into the enclosure. Through the gap, Boromir could plainly see the black night sky peppered with brilliant stars. It was a beautiful sight, but it gave him no cheer. He saw only darkness, and hours, hours until morning came and Faramir was safe. It seemed so long to wait until then, a vast stretch of time in which the unthinkable might happen.

Boromir stared at the darkness, his blood going cold at the anxious thoughts assailing him. Death lay in that fathomless night, waiting, poised. He had already see it claim three men while he watched over Faramir. It lingered still, patiently, and Boromir knew that even the mightiest warrior born of Arda could not fend it off. He could nearly see its shadowy form, hovering just beyond the light of the tent, watching with greedy eyes...

He choked and stood suddenly, frightened at how wildly his thoughts had run. The waiting and worry was twisting his mind; he was a man of action, of doing, and it was driving him mad to have no enemy to fight, no tangible way to conquer the phantom stalking his brother. He sighed and drew a hand through his hair once more, panting as he tried to calm his pounding heart. He needed air.

Wiping his face, he eyed the tent opening just on the other side of Faramir's cot. He would be able to step outside, just for a moment, and still keep a watch for any signs of distress from his brother. The cool night breeze would clear his head, and a short walk would calm his restlessness and hopefully dispel the dark notions filling his imagination.

He dropped his eyes once more to Faramir's face, just to make sure. But his brother still appeared to be in a deep healing slumber, pale but apparently in no immediate danger. Satisfied that a moment's absence would be safe, Boromir briefly placed his hand on Faramir's forehead, then slipped silently out into the night.

The darkness blinded him at first, although the lamps inside the tent had been very dim. After blinking for a few moments, his vision soon cleared, and he could clearly see the land around him. Not far away, black against the night sky, was the edge of the forest, its leaves rustling gently in the breeze. Around the tent, the open plains of the battlefield stretched away, its torn ground only faintly visible in the pale starlight. In the stillness he could hear the mighty waters of the Anduin rushing past not far away. Overhead, the stars gleamed, countless points of light valiantly shimmering in the midst of endless darkness. Calmed by the gentle, cool wind, Boromir turned his eyes to the heavens and felt his heart settle within his breast. It had always made him feel very peaceful to watch the stars, for some reason, and he felt as if he had never needed peace more than on this night.

For several minutes, Boromir simply stood, allowing the cool wind to fan his weary face and soothe his nerves. He was thankful for the anonymity and solitude the darkness afforded him, so that the other men would not see how anxious he was. He would show a cool, collected wit to the men who followed his orders, and his wits were far from collected at the moment.

After resting for a while, he drew a deep breath and began pacing a short distance, ever watchful of his brother sleeping on the other side of the tent opening. He knew he was not handling this as well as he imagined he would, when this day inevitably arrived. Wounds were a normal part of life for a soldier. From the day he learned that he and Faramir would one day take up arms in defense of Gondor as the sons of the Steward, he had known what that duty would include. Training had instilled in him, as he was sure it had instilled in Faramir, a realistic expectation of the harsher aspects of a warrior's life. And if the training had not done it, surely the veterans' tales told around the campfire would have filled in the gaps.

But still ... A frown creased Boromir's face as he glanced once more into the tent as he thought more about it. It was true, he had been prepared for the pain and bloodletting of battle, and he clearly remembered that his own first wound was not really as bad as he had expected it to be. He had born the anguish well, and could still hear his father's praise at his fortitude ringing in his ears. Since that time, he had taken several arrows and stab wounds, had even almost died once, but he had never begrudged one drop of spilled blood. In a way, he had thrived on it, for it had fed his instinctive desire to fight those who had injured himself and his land.

Therefore, he pondered as he slowly walked through the darkness, his hair and shoulders aglow with starlight, the fact that Faramir had fallen prey to the common soldier's fate should not have shocked him so. And yet, he had been shocked down to his core, when the news came, even more so than when he himself had been wounded. The fear he had felt for himself was nothing compared to the agony he had suffered over Faramir's fate. It all seemed quite unreal.

Perhaps that was it, mused Boromir as he turned and walked back the short way he had just passed. His heart had never really believed that Faramir would be injured, even on that day he had helped his brother don his first suit of armor. Despite his own experience, despite everything he knew about the danger of their situation, he had not allowed himself to think that his beloved brother would be struck down. It was too horrible a thought to consider, so he had simply ignored it. Perhaps he had hoped the war would somehow end before Faramir had a chance to be hurt; perhaps he felt that his own strong love would charm Faramir so that arrows and swords would turn from his flesh. It had been a foolish hope, he saw that now, but he knew that had he been aware of the anguish this night had caused him, he would have barred his brother's way and never let him trod the soldier's path.

But now the illusion had vanished, the reality was here, and everything had changed.

His eyes bent to the East, and to a small patch of sky in the distance in which the stars lay hidden behind a vast cloud of black. Now and then the darkness was tinted with red, and a faint sound like the roll of summer thunder touched his ears. Boromir's gaze narrowed as he stared at the realm of the Dark Lord Sauron, deep in the land of Mordor, the sworn enemy of Gondor and of all the free peoples of Middle-earth. Boromir had sworn to defend Gondor to his last drop of blood, to wage battle against the forces of evil until they were driven away forever. His whole being was devoted to the cause, and he had ever considered it a sacred endeavor, worthy of the dearest sacrifice.

Tonight, however, the struggle had taken on a new aspect, for Boromir was now forced to consider the dear sacrifice he may one day be called upon to bear for Gondor: the life of his brother Faramir. 

Boromir shivered at the thought. He loved Gondor with all the might of his soul, but he feelings grew confused when he imagined-as he had to, now-that the cost of her emerging victorious might include his beloved brother. He might survive to see the day that Mordor's forces were driven away for good - he hoped to play a large role in that event - but of what avail would that day be if Faramir was not there to share the triumph?

He looked once more through the opening at his brother's drawn features, still so white in the dim lamp's glow. A dreary future unfolded in his mind's eye, of Gondor rejoicing in its freedom while he knelt at a solitary tomb in the Silent Street, unable to share in the celebration. He saw his brother's music and books put away, rotting into dust, the instruments he loved silent forever. He saw himself, continuing alone, without the gentle voice and quiet wisdom to guide him, the loving friendship to ease the loneliness of his position. Every day he would turn to speak to the one person who perfectly knew his heart, and he would not be there.

Boromir gasped at the vision, and shuddered at how cold and empty it seemed. Such a sacrifice was too much to ask, even for Gondor; yet he knew such a thought was treason even as he formed it. A true soldier would embrace any cost for his mission, and Boromir had been born a warrior, the heir of the Steward and one day Steward himself, devoted to his final breath to the survival of Gondor. Yet how could he be glad for that survival, if it required the loss of the one dearest to him in the world? Was he strong enough to bear such a sacrifice, without growing to resent the land he loved for demanding it of him?

He trembled, and wrapped his arms about himself, determined to drive such dark thoughts away. It seemed madness to think such things; Faramir was strong, he would recover, and there was little reason to feel so certain that he would not share in Gondor's eventual victory. Yet the possibility still haunted the edges of his mind, and he knew he would have to fully reconcile himself to it before he could lead his men with a heart completely committed to the fight. They deserved no less.

With a mind still deeply troubled, he took one last look at the glittering, eternal stars, then stepped back into the healer's tent to wait and watch for the dawn.

Many sleepless hours passed, and when the pink light of sunrise finally crept into the healer's tent, Boromir decided it had been the longest night of his life. The morning had brought great relief, however, for Faramir had lived through the dangerous time; his skin seemed not quite so pale in the faint light, his breathing more deep and sound. He lay still sleeping, and Boromir was wondering if he would wake soon when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Blinking, he turned to see one of his men behind him, a younger soldier with a thin face and black hair, covered with dust from a long ride.

"Captain Boromir," he began in a whisper, but Boromir quickly held a hand up and rose, motioning the messenger away from the cot where Faramir slumbered. They stepped outside, where the first signs of life were stirring in the camp. Kettles were already set over fires to boil, and the smell of cooking food wafted through the misty air. Around them, the first gleams of red-gold morning sunlight were brushing the tops of the trees.

Boromir took a deep breath and faced the soldier with a nod. "Good day, Hegan," he said softly, with a faint smile. "I am pleased to see that you survived our encounter yesterday."

The other man smiled slightly. "Yes, sir, though not from any lack of effort on the part of the Orcs," he replied in an amiable but respectful tone. "How is Lord Faramir?"

His superior turned quickly to look back into the tent. "His condition is much better now that he has passed the night," Boromir said, doing his best to keep all remaining anxiety out of his voice as he looked back at Hegan. "He'll go back to Minas Tirith to heal, and then return to his duties."

Hegan smiled. "Captain Deren will be happy to hear that, sir," he said, relieved. "He sent me here to say that he needs you to return as soon as possible. He thinks the enemy may try to get around our left today."

Boromir nodded; he knew he had already been away too long. He placed a hand on Hegan's shoulder. "Tell him I'll be close behind you," he said firmly, "and ride carefully, they may already be sending out their forward guards. I will see you back at camp."

He patted his friend's shoulder in farewell. Hegan nodded, gave a salute, and hurried back to his horse, dodging the number of healers and assistants who were now moving about in preparation for the day's work. Boromir watched him go, deep in thought, then turned and ducked back into the tent.

Faramir was still asleep when Boromir arrived back at his brother's cot. After thinking for a moment, the warrior sat down, rifled through his pack which lay next to his stool, and withdrew a small board, a few writing utensils and a sheet of parchment. After setting the board across his lap and preparing his pen, he hastily wrote out as complete a note as time would allow.

Faramir,

Duty has called me back to the field, and I regret that I was not here to greet you when you awakened. They have told me how you were wounded. Gondor is fortunate to have one so brave as yourself to fight for her. I am very proud of you, little brother, and look forward to hearing your tale when we next meet. You have passed your first test remarkably well.

If good fortune is with me, I will soon be coming to Minas Tirith to report to Father. I will see you then, and we will visit the tavern and drink your health. I can say with authority that you will find the scars are very helpful when it comes to impressing the women.

Remember me until we meet again,

Boromir

His hand was not nearly as artful as Faramir's, but it was legible. After waiting for the ink to dry, he folded the note and carefully slipped it under Faramir's pillow. As quietly as he could, he packed up his gear, his mind turning between the probably upcoming battle and his newfound thoughts over his dedication to Gondor's cause. But now was not the time for questions or hesitation; he had his duty, and Faramir had to rest and heal. Their paths would diverge for a time, but if the Valar were willing, they would meet again.

Boromir lifted his pack in one hand, then paused and briefly caressed his slumbering brother's forehead. How he wished there was time to wait for just a word, but this would not be granted to them. He bent and placed a light kiss on Faramir's brow, then stood, hefted his pack onto his shoulder, and stepped quickly from the tent, determined to focus his thoughts on the task before him.


	2. Chapter 2

The struggle against the Enemy continued without pause, and Boromir soon became immersed in the ceaseless demands of war. Before he was fully aware of it, two months had passed.

Between the frequent small skirmishes and occasional battles, he was careful to keep in touch with Faramir as much as the uncertain circumstances would permit. Always, it seemed, they were on the march, heading farther from Minas Tirith and into the dangerous wilds of Ithilien. Yet there were periods when there was peace enough to sharpen a quill, find a piece of parchment that was not too creased or torn to write upon, and write out his thoughts to his healing brother.

They were simply written letters; Boromir preferred straight language, and felt no shame in lacking the skill of expression with which Faramir had been so generously gifted. He tried not to make their situation sound too dangerous so as not to strain his brother's mending nerves, tried not to sound too anxious or smothering in his concern. Faramir, he knew, was proud of his abilities and disliked being coddled. Still, it was difficult for Boromir to prevent the constant wondering about his brother's condition to find its way into his words.

His anxiousness was somewhat relieved after Faramir's first reply arrived, two tense weeks after Boromir's letter was sent. From the somewhat tentative penmanship, Boromir could tell that Faramir's strength was still far from recovered, and the words were few, but they told him enough to ease his fears. 

_Boromir,_

_I trust this letter finds you well. They are finally allowing me to write to you, after all but tying me into this bed for three weeks. Ioreth appears convinced now that I am able to handle a pen without fainting from exhaustion. She sends her love._

_My wounds are healing quite well now. I, too, wish we might have spoken before you left, but as it was several more days before I fully regained my senses, it was just as well you did not wait. I will see you when you come to the city, and we may talk then. I will be more than ready for the tavern visit you have promised me, and be assured you will be held to it!_

_There is much I want to say to you about the past six months._

_Father has asked to be remembered to you. He misses you very much, as I do. He has visited me a few times, and said he was proud of my actions._

_Ioreth insists that I am looking pale, so I suppose I must close now. May the grace of the Valar keep you until we meet again._

_Faramir_

The note gave Boromir great encouragement; despite the faltering pen, the letter bore enough of his younger brother's eloquence and good humor to tell him that Faramir would soon be himself once more. The fact that their father, Denethor, the Ruling Steward of Gondor, had seen fit to praise his second son lifted Boromir's heart immeasurably. Faramir must have impressed their father greatly to earn such kind words from his lips, for Denethor normally reserved his favor for Boromir alone, and treated Faramir with indifference. Boromir knew how much his brother longed for their father's love, and the idea that his valor had been recognized gave Boromir no small measure of hope. 

The next six weeks passed quickly, a blur of marching, fighting, camping, tedium, and terror. A few more letters were written, and replies received, the inked lines of Faramir's notes growing firmer with each missive. At length the time came for Boromir to bear a report from his commander to the City for the Steward's perusal, and on a rainy morning in early September he saddled his mount and rode to Minas Tirith, ignoring the uncomfortable journey in anticipation of what lay at the end of it.

 

Boromir sighed to himself as he strode down the long corridor, moving swiftly in and out of the pools of sun that streamed through the open archways lining the walkway. The splendid white-stone architecture of his home city, Minas Tirith, glowed in the bright morning sun, although its man-made beauty did little to lift his spirits. There was too much on his mind to allow him to take notice of what lay outside of it.

It was always somewhat daunting to present reports to his father, Denethor, the ruling Steward of Gondor. From his earliest memories, Boromir had regarded his father as a stern, aloof figure; there had been times of warmth, but those mostly lay in the far past, before the death of Denethor's gentle wife, the Lady Finduilas. Boromir had been ten then, and Faramir just five, but both boys had perceived a definite change in their father's demeanor in the years following their mother's passing. For Boromir, the warmth of the past chilled into high expectations; for Faramir, all warmth vanished entirely.

The young soldier turned the morning's events over in his mind as he passed into the open courtyard of the palace and began wending his way towards the gardens. The Steward's courtroom lay at the pinnacle of the seven-tiered city; above Boromir's head soared the gleaming white Tower of Ecthelion jutting into a bright blue sky. Ordinarily, he was breathtaken by its magnificence, but this day he scarcely favored it with a glance. It was its caretaker, his father, who absorbed all of Boromir's attention.

'He seemed so tired', Boromir mused as he trotted down some stone steps. He had hoped the report would cheer Denethor; it was mostly good news, the Orcs had been beaten back on their every attempt to take the river, and Gondorian casualties had been lighter than the previous several months. Yet he'd noticed little relief in his father's gray eyes at the news, and the Steward's manner had seemed preoccupied and troubled. And had it been his imagination, or was there more gray hair among his father's long black locks than before?

Boromir reached the bottom of the long stairway; an open courtyard now stretched before him, decorated with a few trees and banners flapping in the warm breeze. He strode towards another long corridor lined with open arches on the other side, frowning to himself. 'Something's wrong', his intuition whispered to him, but Boromir did not want to think that of his father, who had always been so strong and wise. 'He's just weary,' he told himself as he entered the sunlight and shadow of the hallway and moved quickly down its length. 'It's this cursed war. We'll all be happier once Mordor is defeated.'

The corridor traveled along one side of a square building, three stories high with identical corridors on all three levels, facing into a large open courtyard in the center. As he traversed the hall, Boromir began looking into the courtyard below, which now lay awash in the morning sun. It was there, he had been told, that he could find Faramir.

He'd wanted to see his brother the moment he rode through Minas Tirith's magnificent ancient gates, but both he and Faramir knew that it was proper and expected to give his report to the Steward first. So he had sent word along to Faramir, hoping that perhaps their father might give him some news of Faramir's condition to stem his curiosity until he could see his brother. Denethor's somber mood, however, had dashed those hopes, and Boromir had learned not to broach the subject of his brother whenever their father seemed ill at ease. The most positive aspect of his short meeting with the Steward turned out to be the fact that it freed him to see Faramir all the sooner.

He trotted down the stone steps leading to the courtyard, a subdued eagerness filling his heart. The last time he had seen Faramir, the young man had been pale, unmoving, weak. Although Boromir knew his brother had fully recovered, knew he was far out of danger, he still longed to see Faramir standing before him, fit and alive, for himself. Until then, it would still not seem true.

He tried to ignore the painful thought which followed that joy, the knowledge that Faramir's recovery only hastened his little brother's return to the battlefield and possible death. He would not think about that now.

The courtyard was now only one level below him. Boromir paused halfway down the stairs leading to the wide stone floor, one gloved hand on the carved rail. From his vantage point, he could see the entire sunlit expanse, the four columned walls lifting around him into the sky. At the center of the courtyard stood a modest circular fountain, sparkling water splashing down its single centerpiece and into its walled stone base. Beside the fountain, sword in hand, was Faramir, a small figure moving silently in the midst of the tall and ancient stone.

Boromir had not been noticed yet, and so he stood quietly and watched his brother, unwilling just yet to intrude on Faramir's meditation. The younger man stood bathed in the sunshine, his red-gold hair seemingly aflame from its brilliance. His back was to Boromir, and as he lifted his sword in a series of fluid and studied combat movements, it became clear that Faramir was striving to regain the strength in his sword arm. He had removed his shirt in the heat of the morning, and Boromir winced to see the scars now defacing his brother's smooth skin; the wounds had long healed, but the claws of war had made their eternal mark.

Faramir, still deep in concentration, executed a pattern of lunges and parries against an unseen opponent, to Boromir's silent admiration. In sweeping motions Faramir raised the sword above his head, drew it slowly downward in a plunging arc, then followed through, his entire body driving forward in a single smooth gesture as he slid the point into his imaginary foe. The swordplay was dancelike, far more elegant than Boromir's mode of fighting. Faramir repeated the moves, then swung the sword about in a series of graceful twists. At length his exertions caused him to spin to face the stairway where Boromir stood, and in an instant Faramir lifted his face upon the realization that he was being watched. Joy quickly spread over Faramir's features, the blue eyes widening with surprise.

Boromir grinned back, feeling suddenly very happy. "An impressive battle, little brother," he said in greeting. "Did you win?"

The younger man burst out in delighted laughter, setting his sword down on the edge of the low fountain wall and running swiftly to the staircase. They met at the bottom, setting further words aside in favor of a tight, heartfelt embrace.

The elder brother's heart soared in thankfulness as they stood together; how strong Faramir seemed now, how very far from death! There was no frailty in the arms that almost crushed him in their hold, no paleness in the rose-hued skin glowing beneath the warm sunlight. Faramir was all right, and for one dizzying moment, Boromir believed he would always be all right, his charmed, invincible little brother whom no war could ever touch. His love would make it so.

The moment of greeting passed, and the brothers parted, each smiling broadly and grasping the arms of the other, unwilling yet to completely break the link. As Boromir surveyed his grinning brother's face, he was struck suddenly by how much older Faramir appeared to him now, for reasons other than the slight beard now sprouting on his brother's chin. Boromir's own smile never faltered, but his heart tightened painfully. He knew the shadow that now sat upon Faramir's brow, the faint dark glimmer that sat newly born in the depths of those blue eyes. It was a mark borne by all who had seen the horrors of war, one that never dimmed with age. Boromir knew well that it graced his own countenance, and had for five years.

War had touched Faramir, he realized sadly, in the few moments it took for him to see it. In a way, his little brother had died after all.

Faramir laughed a bit and tightened his grasp on Boromir's arms, shaking Boromir from his reverie. "That's a strange look to greet me with after all this time!" he said in a light tone. "Was Father in a bad humor? Or was my swordplay truly that dismal?"

Unwilling to admit his dark thoughts on so glad an occasion, Boromir returned the laugh, throwing off his melancholy. "No, indeed," he replied, giving Faramir a light, brotherly slap on the arm. "I was only thinking of the sad fate of your next opponent. You shall stun him with your style, at least." He stood back a bit and gave Faramir an appraising look. "You're looking far better than your letters suggested! By the way Ioreth kept insisting you close your writings, I thought you'd still be bedridden, at least."

"Ah," Faramir chuckled as they dropped their arms, and descended into the courtyard, "you know how she's always worried about us. I spent most of my last week at the Houses devising ways of sneaking out in case she wouldn't release me soon. But I have fallen back together quite well, it seems."

Boromir was walking behind him as he spoke, and in the brightness of the sunlight that now bathed both of them, he could plainly see the scars of Faramir's numerous stab wounds along his sides and back. He felt himself go cold; there seemed to be many of them, far more than he'd guessed. What a fight it must have been...

Suddenly the horrific scenario flashed across his mind again, and Boromir saw his brother once more surrounded by Orcs, grabbed by the throat, the flashing blades of the creatures plunged again and again into his flesh. The sickening feeling consumed him as it had that long-ago night in the healer's tent, the crushing fear of death and loss and his own helplessness in the face of it. Boromir almost gasped at the sharpness of the agonizing vision, but caught himself, and taking a deep, silent breath, willed the terror away. Now was not the time.

His expression of horror was quickly replaced with a far more pleasant mask as Faramir turned to face him once more. They had reached the fountain, and the younger man was now holding his sword in one hand and scabbard in the other. Boromir blinked at the sight of the scars marring Faramir's chest and stomach, but otherwise made no sign of his concern.

"I'm pleased you managed to get away long enough for a visit," Faramir said as he slid the sword back into its home. "How do things stand on the border?"

Boromir shrugged. "It has been hot work of late, but our losses have not been many," he replied in a dull fashion. He sighed. "But if you please, may we not speak of the war? I have just spent the morning discussing it with Father, and while the news is not bleak, I would find almost any other topic far more appealing."

The younger man smiled, understanding in his handsome face. "Would you rather hear about the history of the Sindarin language? I found this fascinating book on it in the archives, well over eight hundred pages long. It should hold us for at least three hours."

A tight grin met his words. "I did say 'almost', you know," Boromir noted. He paused, peered at his brother's face, then reached out and ran one thumb briskly over the long ginger stubble covering Faramir's chin. "For another topic, you might explain this recent neglect of your razor. Do I actually see a *beard* on that tender chin of yours?"

Faramir laughed and stepped away, grabbing a towel from among his clothing that lay piled on the fountain wall. "The beginnings of one, anyway," he confessed as he dried the sweat from his arms and chest. "It began to grow when I was too weak to shave myself, and when my strength returned, I decided to trim it down and allow some of it to grow in. I figured my men might be more inclined to follow my orders if I looked more than twelve years old."

"Well, it will certainly terrify the Orcs," observed Boromir with a grin as Faramir began pulling on his shirt. "It's a good start. Not as grand as mine, of course, but I've got fives years on you, after all."

Faramir finished tying his shirt on and reached for his leather vest. "And you just may need it," he said with a smile as he tugged on the garment. "Can you stay for midday supper? You did promise me an ale, you know. Don't think I've forgotten!"

"Nor have I!" Boromir assured him. "I've been looking forward to it all day, and every dusty mile between here and Ithilien. How does the Silver Tankard sound? I had an excellent roast the last time I was there."

Faramir nodded as he buckled on his sword. "It should also be fairly quiet there, as they are not so close to the busy parts of the city," he mused. After a moment, he sighed and lifted his eyes to Boromir, a new solemnity coming to their depths. "I would like to speak to you, brother. Another chance may not come for some time, and so much has happened."

Boromir felt a similar seriousness settle over his own heart. "You know my thoughts, as always, little brother," he said in a pensive tone of agreement.

The younger man allowed his gaze to linger on Boromir's face a moment longer, each brother reading clearly what lay in the other's expression. Boromir felt both relieved and wary of the sober, troubled glint in Faramir's eyes. It was going to be a long, difficult discussion, but he welcomed the chance to speak the words he had waited three months to say, and ease the burden on his brother's soul in any way he could.

Within a few moments, Faramir had finished gathering up his affects, and the two young men quit the bright courtyard for the darker confines of the Silver Tankard.


	3. Chapter 3

"I see your injuries cost you nothing of your appetite!"

Boromir smiled slightly as he spoke, appraising the nearly empty bowl of stew his brother was busy devouring. They sat now in a corner table of a small, stone-walled tavern, quiet despite the fact that noon had not far passed. The floor and tables were plain but clean, the furniture made of simple wood polished by many years of use. Candles and lanterns supplied the dim, warm light that illuminated their meal, gleaming dully off the pewter plates and drinking vessels. Despite its fancy name, the Silver Tankard aspired to only modest heights, promising no more than good ale and hearty food. The Steward's sons preferred it because it was somewhat off the more well-traveled routes of the city, tucked in a corner far from the main road, away from eyes and ear hungering for gossip. Here they could dine and talk in peace.

Boromir had finished his meal of bread and cheese first, and now sat quietly watching Faramir, one hand loosely cradling a half-empty tankard of ale. There had rarely been a moment during their supper when Boromir was not closely studying his brother, feelings of relief and concern battling for supremacy in his heart. He was careful not to allow his expression to betray the turmoil, but he found himself powerless to prevent it. 

To Boromir's jocular words, Faramir offered a crooked smile as he swallowed another bite and reached for his drink. "After living so long on gruel and weak tea, I believe I could eat boiled warg and enjoy it," he said, before quenching his thirst. "And thank you for the ale-not sure if it's just the fact that I haven't had any for a while, but it tastes very good today."

His older brother's smile widened a little. "I'm sure they made a special brew in honor of our visit," he said with a laugh. "You surely earned it, I would say."

Faramir had taken another mouthful of stew, and was chewing now, a thoughtful look coming into his blue eyes. "Hmm," he agreed as he swallowed, his tone becoming quiet. "Surprisingly enough, Father said so as well. Did I tell you?"

Boromir nodded. "In your first letter. I was quite pleased to read of it - what did he say?"

His brother sighed a bit and look into the distance as he thought. "He came to my room on the second day I was awake," he replied after a moment, the hushed tone of his voice indicating how much the memory moved him. "I remember he sat beside my bed, and took my hand, and said how I had acted in a noble manner worthy of a soldier of Gondor, to place my life in danger to save another." He blinked, and dropped his gaze to the almost-empty bowl before him. As he did so, Boromir could see tears sparkling on his eyelashes in the candlelight. "And before he left, he kissed my brow, and said he was very proud of me." 

There his words stopped, and Faramir remained staring at the table, his gaze distant, his expression solemn and deeply thoughtful.

Boromir peered keenly at his brother, a sensation of high gratitude swelling through him to their father for showing such unlooked-for kindness to Faramir. Did Denethor know, he wondered, how very much his words meant to his youngest son? Boromir had long believed that their father little suspected how much Faramir loved him and yearned for such signs of affection and approval. This visit likely did more to mend Faramir's wounds than the healer's medicines. 

"It appears he is beginning to appreciate you at last," murmured Boromir softly after silence had reigned for a few moments. "I'm very happy for you, little brother."

Faramir lifted his eyes, and Boromir could plainly see the deep appreciation there. After a pause, he nodded.

"It was most surprising, and encouraging, to say the least," Faramir replied, slowly curling the fingers of one hand around the handle of the pewter spoon protruding from the bowl. "Our second meeting was more routine-just going over my report of the battle, once I managed to set it down-but even there his manner was more open. He seemed to understand that I couldn't really tell him very much." He sighed, glancing down at the stew as he stirred it absently with the spoon. "It...took me some time to be able to speak of what I heard and saw."

Boromir's thoughts flew back to his own early memories, of the first battles he lived through. Even he, raised on tales of glory and battle, had been horrified. How much worse it must have been for Faramir, who had no love of combat! He longed to comfort his brother in any way he could, but he held himself back, knowing that Faramir would let him know if he was ready to talk about it. 

As Boromir watched his brother with sympathetic eyes, Faramir looked up at him. The shadow of war now fully veiled his somber face. "It was not as I thought it was going to be," he said in a sad whisper, his large eyes full of sorrow.

A shudder ran through Boromir's heart, and he put aside his ale, preparing to hear every word. He straightened and turned his eyes fully to Faramir, leaning forward slightly so that his brother could speak as softly as he wished to and still be heard.

"It wasn't what I imagined, either," Boromir admitted, crossing his arms over and propping them on the table. 

His brother pursed his lips, then glanced up at Boromir with a slightly embarrassed expression. "Did you find yourself...dreaming about it? After your first battle?"

Boromir grunted a little. "They were more like nightmares," he replied with a small shake of his head. He peered closely at Faramir. "You need not be ashamed of that, brother. I don't know a soldier from any company who has not seen the dead fall again in their dreams."

"I know," murmured Faramir, looking away. "That's what Madril, what all the men told me. And there are others in my company, new soldiers as I was, who fared worse than I. It's just..." His voice trailed off, and he shivered, closing his eyes. "Even asleep, I could hear their screams. Smell the smoke and blood. I...didn't expect that." He paused, then opened his eyes again, blinking. "I feared Father would find out, and think me a coward."

Boromir smiled a bit, and gently gripped his brother's forearm. "He won't dare say that, I trust, after your actions on the field. And I doubt the soldier you saved would ever think so, either."

The younger man looked up at him, their eyes meeting, and after a moment, he sighed and nodded a bit. "I am still not entirely sure how all that happened. It is all a blur in my mind; I recall only seeing that Dirion was in need, and went to his aid."

"And slew a good number of the enemy in the bargain," Boromir said in a proud, encouraging voice, "as any true soldier of Gondor would."

Faramir grinned a little at the praise before bending his eyes downward, his mood turning pensive as he toyed again with his food. "And you know, I don't remember being afraid," he mused. "I...suppose it never occurred to me, the danger I was putting myself in. I remember the pain as they attacked me, and fighting back at them, but I wasn't afraid, even when I thought they might kill me." He hesitated, then glanced back up at his brother, frowning. "That sounds very foolish, doesn't it?"

His older brother shook his head. "You saw your duty and performed it successfully without concern for yourself. If that is foolishness, I wish we had a thousand such fools in our army. Barad-Dur would fall in no time!"

Boromir laughed a little, and Faramir gave him an appreciative, somewhat abashed smile in response before lifting the last bite of stew to his mouth. His gaze became thoughtful and distant, a look that Boromir had long recognized as a sign that Faramir was contemplating something and had no immediate desire for further talk. A momentary, comfortable silence fell, and Faramir finished his meal while Boromir returned to his ale and studied his brother.

It was no small matter for Boromir to sort out the feelings warring within his heart. It was still quite early to tell for sure, but it seemed to him that Faramir was going to make a much better soldier than either of them had anticipated. Already his commander spoke highly of him; already he had acquired a cool head in battle and the ability to focus his efforts and cast aside fear. In his mind he saw his brother's skillful practice with the sword from the morning; few men he knew could handle a blade so gracefully, yet he had also seen the menace beneath the art, the deadly thrust with which Faramir had ended his exercise. Soon, Faramir would be a commander himself, and an able one if he read the signs correctly.

Yet fighting that pride in his brother's accomplishment was the same dread that had gnawed at his soul for three months, the knowledge of where such talents normally took men in the war against Mordor. Faramir would lead armies of men, likely where they were most needed, to Ithilien and the banks of the Anduin, where the fighting was hottest and most deadly. Only the best men went there, men who could be trusted to battle with wisdom and tenacity-men such as his beloved brother.

Suddenly a shameful wish came to Boromir, a desire that his brother should have proven less than able as a warrior. If only Faramir were not so brave, or skilled, or smart; then he would be kept in the ranks, placed where talent mattered not so much, and Boromir would know he was far from where the worst danger lurked. Then he would not have so much cause to worry, and no nightmare of seeing his brother's dead body would wake him in the night.

As soon as he thought this, Boromir chided himself, and threw a guilty glance at Faramir as if he thought his brother could read what he was thinking. But Faramir was still looking across the room, lost in his own musings, unaware of Boromir's selfish wish. 

Grateful, Boromir tried to drive such feelings from his mind, ashamed of himself for desiring Faramir to be less than he was. There were none he knew of who could boast as fine a man for their brother, and if Faramir were not as brave, or wise, or able, he would not be Faramir. He should be thanking Eru for seeing fit to create such a man as his brother, for Gondor would have high need of him before long.

His brother must have felt Boromir's eyes upon him, for all at once Faramir turned his gaze from the tavern wall and looked sharply at him, somewhat surprised. Caught, Boromir blinked, a trifle unnerved.

"You seemed a bit far away just then, brother," said Faramir lightly as he pushed his empty bowl away. "Are you all right?"

Boromir coughed a bit and smiled, shaking his head. "Bah! It's nothing," he replied, shifting in his seat a bit, trying to get comfortable on the wooden bench he sat on. "Just...wondering how the men are getting along, I suppose. All was quiet when I left, but there is no knowing some days."

"Yes," Faramir sighed, curling one hand around his tankard and looking into its depths with a sad expression. After a moment, he raised his head. "It seems a miracle you managed to find time to come here at all. The last word I had from Madril said there was almost constant fighting along the northern banks of the river. Our need grows more desperate every day." As he said this, his eyes clouded a little, as if the horrors of war once more shadowed his memory.

Boromir grew quickly uncomfortable to see such a dark expression come over his little brother's face; it belonged on an older man, more seasoned and hardened than he ever desired Faramir to become. After a pause, he leaned forward, his voice low and full of concern. "You should not worry so about such matters yet, little brother," he said quietly. "You'll put yourself right back in the Houses. Now is the time for you to rest; we can hold them off a while longer until you rejoin our ranks."

The younger man peered at him for a moment, then lifted the tankard to his lips, which were touched with a slight smile. "Some feel I would better serve our country elsewhere. Do you recall Edrahil?"

A severe frown creased Boromir's brow, puzzled as he was by the odd turn their discussion had taken. "Father's head archivist in the library?"

Faramir nodded as he set the vessel down, swallowing. "Mm-hmm."

Boromir blinked. "Well ... aye, surely I do. You spent almost as much time with him as with me, growing up. I wondered that he never tried to have Father put you in the library instead of the army."

"There's the thing, brother," announced Faramir, leaning back in his seat and draping one arm casually over the back of his bench. "He has done just that. Soon after I began my recovery, Edrahil came to visit me. During our visit, he said that if I wished, he would be willing to accept my services working with the scrolls, so that Father might not risk losing both of us."

The breath caught in Boromir's throat at this news, so great was his surprise and joy. Here was the answer to his greatest concern! As Faramir took another drink, the hopeful thoughts tumbled through Boromir's mind. Such a position would fulfill his brother's fondest wishes; he would be far happier in the library than on the battlefield, and Boromir would not have to fear for him there. Denethor would likely approve as well, for as impressed as the Steward was lately, he had privately voiced concerns to Boromir over his younger son's lack of apparent martial skills. They were unfounded, but at least the mistaken belief would probably mean that Denethor would not object to Faramir retiring from the field.

His heart began to pound for relief as a heavy weight began to lift from his shoulders. Surely Faramir would accept such a post, dear as Edrahil and the scrolls were to him, and Boromir would never again have to ponder the nightmare of his beloved brother falling beneath the Enemy's sword.

Faramir had finished his drink and was wiping his lips, looking at his elder brother in expectation of some reply. Struggling to keep a large smile from his lips, Boromir laughed a bit and said, "That is surprising news indeed! What did Father say of this?"

"Oh, he never heard of it," was the offhand reply as Faramir leaned back once more. "I told Edrahil I could not accept his kind offer, so the proposition never went beyond the walls of my room."

A gentle shock rolled through Boromir's system as the weight crashed down on his shoulders once again. He could scarcely believe what he had just heard. "You, er...told him no?" he finally stammered softly, disappointment creeping into his voice.

Faramir glanced at him, his expression betraying mild surprise at Boromir's reaction. "Yes, of course," he said with a shrug. "What else?"

"Wha..." It took a moment for the astonished Boromir to force the words from his mouth. "Well...I would have thought you'd fair leap at the chance to abandon the sword for those dusty parchments! By the Valar, you practically grew up in that library. And Edrahil's as dear as a grandfather to you."

The younger man thought for a moment and nodded. "Both true enough," he allowed in a regretful voice, scratching his bearded chin. "He seemed quite let down that I refused the position, poor fellow. I think he was sort of counting on my help in sorting out all those Second Age scrolls he found last year."

"Then why refuse?" Boromir's tone was becoming exasperated, but he was no longer paying attention to it. "It's a prime opportunity, one I know you've always dreamt of! It may not come again."

"That is also true." Faramir was sitting up now, eying his brother keenly. "Yet I feel now my services are of better use on the battlefield."

"But your heart is in those scrolls," Boromir pointed out firmly, leaning forward on the table, his green eyes becoming stormy. "We have many soldiers, Faramir, but few who know and love the ancient writings as well as you. You hate war; I have heard you say so many times. You are not happy there!"

Faramir leaned forward as well, his own eyes the turbulent color of a summer thundercloud. "My own happiness matters little if Gondor should be overthrown," he replied sharply. "Poor as my soldiering skills may be, I am willing to place them between our country and Mordor, if they will slow its advance by even a day."

A full scowl broke Boromir's expression. "Your skills are not poor, Faramir!" 

"You appear to think as much," was the quick and heated reply, "if you feel they can be so lightly spared at such a time as this. Edrahil is a dear man, but he does not know what we know. How happy would I be, laboring among the texts while my brothers lay dying beneath the blades of the Enemy? How could I regard myself in the glass each morning, when I was not doing all I could to stop the suffering of our people? Think you so little of me, that I could debase my manhood by doing such a thing?" His eyes were wide now, his lips thin and curled with passion.

Boromir drew a quick, deep breath, worry and anger rising in his own breast. "You should not have to even ask me so foolish a question," he said in a piercing whisper, his gaze fixed in his brother's face. "You know I do not think little of you, nor your valor! But-you would be contented within those library walls!"

His brother glared at him. "I would be *useless*!"

"You would be *SAFE*!"

"Safe?" Faramir shot back, his cheeks turning red as a tone of wounded pride flew into his voice. "I do not need stone walls to protect myself, Boromir, I do have some knowledge of the sword, after all! Unless you still think me a babe unable to defend myself? Father has questioned my competence, but I never thought you did as well!"

Boromir's throat caught at the way Faramir's voice broke while uttering those last words, the angry pitch replaced by a softer sound full of hurt. He had opened his mouth to respond to his brother's accusations, but his reply went unsaid as he saw the pain in Faramir's eyes. Their thundercloud gleam had changed to a far more intimidating light, one of disappointment and sadness. Boromir recognized it well, for he had often seen that look darken Faramir's brow whenever the youngest son's proffered affection had been indifferently turned aside by their father. 

Aghast at how deeply he had accidentally wounded his brother, Boromir tried to organize what he hoped would be an effective apology. "You know I have never doubted your ability," he managed to say. "You're one of the best soldiers Gondor has to offer."

His brother sighed and peered at him, his eyes wide with puzzlement. "Then why do you propose I lay my sword aside, when our people need me most?" he asked in a much quieter voice than before. "If it is my wounding, fear not, for I can bear another far worse than this for Gondor's sake."

Boromir nodded, letting his gaze fall to the table as he tried to speak. "If such a fate befell you a second time, I am sure you would have the strength to bear it well," he muttered, "but I am not so certain..*I* could."

Silence fell, and Boromir did not dare raise his eyes to look at Faramir. A multitude of emotions tumbled through his mind. He had never intended for his brother to know of his concerns, and now he was assailed by the notion that he should not have told him. It sounded so selfish, now, to hold Faramir back simply to ease his own heart; but he knew, without question, that if he ever had to go into another healer's tent, and see Faramir lying again on that accursed cot, bleeding, perhaps dying next time...

He shivered, unable to even think it. Yet worse than confronting that vision had been the idea that he had caused Faramir's gentle heart the same agony of rejection wrought by their father's thoughtlessness. He would have said anything, then, to lift that pain, anything to let Faramir know that his concern was not born of faithlessness, but love.

And, of course, he had probably just made everything worse.

"Boromir, please, look at me."

The corner of his lip twitched in chagrin, and Boromir could not ignore his brother's gently spoken request. He reluctantly raised his head, at length looking full into Faramir's face. Faramir appeared calm now, and deeply moved.

For a few moments the two brothers looked at each other, silent.

Thoroughly embarrassed, Boromir coughed, shifted on the wooden bench, and finally murmured, "I...er..." he stopped, sighed. "Faramir, forgive me."

After a pause, Faramir shook his head, his expression somber. "You have done nothing that requires forgiveness. I must ask your pardon, for my blindness. I should have seen your concern."

Boromir shook his head. "You *know* I have high regard for your ability..."

His brother nodded. "Yes, yes, I do know that," he replied quietly, a slight break in his voice. "I should not have accused you otherwise."

A strangled laugh forced itself through Boromir's tight throat. "My clumsy words left you but little reason not to!" he exclaimed bitterly. He sighed again and met Faramir's eyes. "Gondor is fortunate to have your sword. I only feared..." He pursed his lips, trying to arrange his wildly swarming thoughts. "That night in the healer's tent, when you were first wounded...it..." The words trailed off, and he looked down, disgusted with himself. Why would the words not come! Boromir was used to speaking with his sword, not his heart, and he did not know what to say.

Faramir's whispered words stirred him from his frustrated reverie. "You need say nothing more, Boromir," he heard his brother say. "I know the pain that time must have brought you."

At this, Boromir glanced up at his brother, puzzled. To his surprise, he saw perfect sympathy and understanding in Faramir's somber expression, as if he knew every fear for his brother that had gnawed on Boromir's soul.

Boromir swallowed, uncomfortable at his brother's dark gaze. "I did not wish to burden you..." he began.

The younger man sighed a little. "I carry the bitter weight already, I'm afraid," he said sadly, sitting back a bit. "I have borne it since the day you rode to war, five years ago. How can I lay blame on you for suffering now what I have felt after your every battle?"

A small gasp escaped Boromir's lips as awareness and shame flooded his soul. The reason for his brother's empathy shone through his mind with perfect clarity now; all Boromir had suffered the past three months, Faramir had endured for five years! He was struck speechless at the thought, mortified that it had not occurred to him before this.

Faramir was staring into his empty tankard, his eyes clouded and melancholy. "I've never forgotten when you were seriously wounded, five years ago," he confessed softly. "They brought you to the Houses, and everyone thought you were going to die. It was a week before they knew you would survive, but in that time I barely slept or ate. In every dream I had, you died, and I felt so helpless to stop it that I woke up crying. I swore that if you lived, I'd find some way to keep you safe so that you'd never be in danger again." He paused, and raised his head, his lips curled a little at the ends. Boromir saw his eyes glisten. "Does any of this sound familiar?"

Dumbfounded, Boromir nodded. That time seemed so long ago now, and once he had recovered from that severe wound, he had pretty much forgotten about it. He had never realized how an event which was mostly a blur to him had so seared itself into his brother's heart. Guilt assailed him for making Faramir go through so much, although his confused mind could not work out a way to have avoided it. 

"I never thought anything that bad would happen to you," Faramir went on, his voice thick and hushed. "When they finally let me see you, it was because they thought it would be the last time. You were asleep, and so pale..." His voice caught, and he swallowed, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes, then took a deep breath. "I started to wonder if I was dying of grief, as they say the Elves do. But once we all knew you would live and return to the war, I realized that I would have to find a way to bear such pain, for this was what you loved and Gondor needed you so much."

Boromir cocked his head, studying Faramir, hoping perhaps to gain knowledge from his experience. "And what can you tell me, little brother?" 

Faramir sighed and looked up at him. "That after five years, I am still learning," was the somber reply.

Disappointed, Boromir sat motionless, somehow not surprised that there would be no easy way to deal with this.

"However," said Faramir, still eying his brother closely, "I am most grateful to know that there is at least one heart that looks for my return from the battlefield, as dearly as I look for yours."

Boromir smiled warmly at him, feeling his own eyes grow moist. "It will never be otherwise," he whispered.

The younger man smiled gently back, and after a moment looked down at the table, lost in his own contemplations.

There was an amiable silence for a few moments as Boromir turned the conversation over in his mind, both relieved and troubled by what it had revealed. At length, he sighed. "So, it appears we have ourselves a rather troublesome problem," he observed, tilting his head back as he regarded his brother. "One even the Tankard's fine ale can't solve." 

Faramir met his gaze, and nodded, crossing his arms as he leaned forward on the table. "Fine ale it is, but I fear you're right. We are both of us loath to risk the other in battle, yet we seem to have few other options, so long as Mordor sends its forces against us. You are a soldier born, and I a soldier made, and our duty must always be to Gondor first, until the day that Mordor is defeated."

Boromir's lips pursed together in sorrow as he pondered the bitter truth in his brother's words. They could never forswear their allegiance to Gondor, regardless of the cost; he had always known this, even on that night by the healer's tent three months ago when nothing seemed clear. His devotion might stagger under the weight of loss and grief, but it would not fall. But it would be a crushing burden...

When he next spoke, his voice was low. "It would be hard to feel that defeat a true victory, if you were not here to share it," he admitted. "It would take all of my strength to lay such a sacrifice on the altar of our country, though it may be treason to say it."

The other man's expression became solemn at these words, and he looked away. "Then we are both traitors," he said quietly, "for that same thought has crossed my mind as well." Faramir sat in silent thought for a moment, then looked back up at his brother. "Yet I see no help for it. Many among our people have born such pain, and we must look to their example, until the day when Gondor needs our swords no more."

At these words, Boromir's green eyes grew hard with sudden determination. "Then it is to that day that we must strive with even greater strength," he murmured, his tone hushed as he formed his newborn thoughts. "Only when Gondor is victorious will the lives of our people be secured." His eyes softened, and he smiled slightly as he turned to Faramir. "Only then, little brother, will I truly feel that you are safe. Then you will be able to return to your books and music with no more fear on your heart, and we will both be free." 

The gleam of anticipation that leapt into Faramir's eyes at that idea told Boromir of his brother's profound desire for such a future. "I would welcome that day with untold joy," he agreed, "to know that you are out of the way of harm as well, and our people at peace." 

A cloud of sadness then passed over his face, and Boromir recognized the expression with regret, knowing that it was the horrific images of war that befouled his brother's thoughts. 

"It is hard to imagine such a time," Faramir added in a soft voice, glancing away. "To see the sky to the east blue again, and the threat of the Shadow forever gone, after all these years..." He pursed his lips, then turned his head to look at his brother. "Do you truly believe we may yet live to see it?"

Boromir's eyes narrowed slightly as this idea played once more through his mind. The downfall of Mordor offered the only hope he could see for ending his brother's suffering, and his own as well. Faramir's calling lay in the quiet pursuits of the mind and the pen, not on the battlefield; he deserved a long life, love and children, not to be gutted on an Orc's spear, an image which made Boromir's blood run cold to his very core. He would see Faramir safe, and himself as well if only to ease the suffering of his brother's worried heart. 

The fall of Sauron alone would bring this about, and in his heart Boromir felt a new determination being born, adding strength to the devotion that already drove his sword. 

"We shall see that day," he whispered, his mind's eye watching as the horrendous towers of the Dark Lord toppled to the ground on some unknown day in the years ahead. "On my honor, I promise you. In whatever way I am able, I will make certain of it."

 

The afternoon sun was beginning to drift to the horizon as Boromir led his horse some way past the towering main gate of the city, Faramir walking by his side. Behind them loomed the White City, stretching into the deep blue sky; before them spread the tall grasses and wildflowers of the Pelennor Fields, sweeping into the distance until they reached the western bank of the rolling Anduin. Beyond the mighty river lay the majestic mountains, and the black rolling skies above the cursed land of Mordor.

"They have told me I may rejoin my regiment soon," Faramir was saying as they walked to the road that would lead Boromir back to his men, the soft grass swishing around their boots as they strode along. "Within a month, perhaps."

Boromir's heart tightened, but he forced a smile as he gently led his horse through the field. "You must use your time wisely, then," he said in a light voice, although his heart was heavy. "Don't forget what I told you about women and scars. You will not be lonely for companionship, I warrant, if you follow my advice."

Faramir chuckled. "A shame you did not get a chance to show me yourself," he remarked. 

A snort escaped Boromir's lips. "You men of learning! Always demanding proof of everything. Do you not trust your own brother's words?"

"For most things, yes," Faramir replied with an inclination of his head. "On ladies, 'tis another matter, for I have seen evidence of your success on wooing to the contrary, scars or no. Or have you forgotten the dance Father gave last year?" 

Boromir's cheeks flared red. "That shows nothing! She...I...we had a misunderstanding, that is all."

His brother shook his head, still smiling. "Not the first one that ended in your face being doused with wine, if I remember," he replied. 

They reached the turn in the road and stopped walking. To one side, the trail stretched across the plains and further into Gondor; to the other, the way sloped down to the river, and Mordor.

The two men faced each other, Faramir still smiling, although Boromir could see the glint of moisture at the corners of his eyes. "No, dear brother, I cannot take your word alone," said Faramir, lifting his head to gaze into Boromir's face. "I must insist you return soon and prove your statements to be true."

Boromir eyed him sharply, his own lips twisting in a smile even as the weight upon his heart grew more pressing. He drew himself up and leaned his head back, his blonde hair tossing slightly in the warm summer breeze.

"When we meet again," he said firmly, to assure Faramir that such an event would occur, "you and I shall visit the Silver Tankard once more, and then you will see what effect the marks of battle may have upon the senses of a lady. And I shall then most gladly accept your apology!"

Faramir tightened his lips, and nodded. Despite the firmness of his expression, his lip trembled, and fear shone behind the tears now covering his eyes.

That expression drove to the center of Boromir's heart, and he felt his face flush with the emotions too deep for description. There was nothing he could say to take the fear from Faramir's eyes; they had both seen battle now, and knew too well what might happen, despite brave talk and boasts. He had no eloquence as Faramir possessed, no talent to ease pain with soft words. He peered into Faramir's face for a moment, then placed his hands on his brother's shoulders and drew him into a fierce embrace.

It appeared to be enough, for Faramir without hesitation returned the gesture, pulling Boromir to him with a strength the older man had scarce thought possible, after all his younger brother had endured. 

For several moments, Boromir stood motionless, holding Faramir, unable to speak. He tried not to think that this might be the final time he held his little brother, that these words might be the last he would hear Faramir utter. Yet in the surge of emotion, he could not keep such thoughts at bay, and he drew his brother even closer at the idea. If Faramir was lost to him, at least his brother would know how dearly he was loved. 

At length, he willed away the tightness of his throat enough to finally whisper, "May your blade find only victory, until we meet again."

With these words, Boromir heard his brother gasp a little, and felt the arms wrapped around him clasp him tighter still. A kiss was brushed across his cheek, and he heard Faramir whisper in a broken voice, "The Valar watch over you!"

Boromir accepted the blessing, but knew with a slight pang of guilt that he did not trust the Valar, or anyone else, to see to his safety or that of Gondor. He and the sons of their land would find some way to win the war, and end such partings as this forever. This was his task now, and he would see it done, somehow. 

At length they parted, and Boromir quickly turned to wipe the tears from his face, strangely embarrassed that his brother-whose own face was quite wet-should see him weep. In one swift motion Boromir mounted his horse and picked up the reins, looking down at Faramir as his mount danced beneath his weight. 

Faramir had stepped back a little, and was now watching him calmly, a small smile of farewell on his face. Boromir found the strength to return the smile, although his was a sad one. Then with a sigh, Boromir turned to the road before him and sent his steed to trotting with a small touch of his heels. 

At an appropriate curve in the road, he turned slightly to see Faramir still watching him, much smaller now, with the great White City looming behind him, glowing golden-orange in the late afternoon sun. The beauty of the image pierced Boromir's heart; before his eyes were the two things he loved best in the world, and both were in mortal peril. As he raised his arm in one final wave, and saw Faramir do likewise, he swore anew in his heart to do all in his power to see them both safe. How he would accomplish this, he knew not, but felt certain he could find a way, if he but waited and watched long enough.

His time grew short, and at last Boromir faced the long road before him, and began his journey back to war, beneath the black-red skies of Mordor.

THE END

Thanks for reading! Reviews always welcome!

Sue :)


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